Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's
life, a life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it
was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving
confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told
me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me,
made me laugh and weep.
But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one
August night. I was responding to a call from a small brick four-plex in a
quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some party people, or
someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early
shift at some factory in the industrial part of town.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a
single light in a ground floor window. Under such circumstances, many drivers
just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too
many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of
transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the
door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to
myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I
could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the
door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print
dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s
movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no
one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There
were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the
corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she asked.
I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the
woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking
me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat
my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked,
"Can you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry.
I'm on my way to a hospice."
I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says
I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route
would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me
the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once
been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to
slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the
darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly
said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a
low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under
a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting
her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The
woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her
purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held
onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she
said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove
aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What
if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his
shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven
away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more
important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around
great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware . . . beautifully
wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
